


The Case of the Woman and the Spy

by kaylin_neya



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 14:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13859622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaylin_neya/pseuds/kaylin_neya
Summary: Joan Watson is a top notch covert operative, and Sherlock Holmes is her handler. Together, they take on the government's most wanted: Moriarty.





	The Case of the Woman and the Spy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired loosely by James Bond, and because I love Lucy Liu's interpretation of Watson.

**The Case of the Woman and the Spy**

from the files of Joan Watson, Active Field Agent, Case Number 0221B

 

“You want me to do _what?_ ”

Joan looks dubiously up at the ivy encrusted brick wall she’s standing behind. The lone open window, three stories high, seems practically unreachable from her vantage point.

“Climb in through the third story window,” Holmes repeats, slightly louder, as if instead of asking as a means to express her disbelief she’d merely misheard his instruction. “I’ve had the housekeeper leave it open for you.”

Joan shakes her head and steps back, eyeing the ivy. “The last time I climbed a wall this high was at the gym and I was strapped in with a harness.”

“You’re in excellent shape, Watson,” Holmes says cheerfully, “I expect you’ll manage.”

Joan rolls her eyes. She can almost picture him, back at headquarters, smirking at her through the monitors. She turns slightly to the left, where she knows they’ve installed cameras on the nearby lampposts, and shows him her middle finger.

“Very mature,” he begins, but she’s already smiling and tapping her earpiece to mute, imagining his indignant scowl. It’s easy to call to mind -- they’ve been agent and handler for roughly two years now, and she’s seen practically every expression imaginable cross his face.

She squares her shoulders and turns back to The Wall. “Here goes,” she murmurs to herself, and grabs a fistful of ivy.

Miraculously, she makes it up to the third story, tumbles into the open room. “Oomph.”

Her landing jars the earpiece, flicks it off mute. She can hear what sounds like the tail end of one of Holmes’ lectures – “…ivy, for which, obviously, you’re quite fortunate.”

“Yes, thank you,” Joan interrupts. “Where is the package?”

“Back then, are you?” Holmes snipes. But he only pauses a moment before adding, “If you’re standing with your back to the window, there should be a small hallway on your left. Open the closet at the end of the hall and check the top shelf.”

Sure enough—and she has to stand on tiptoe to check—there’s a large brown box on the top shelf of the linen closet.

“Please tell me you’ve set up an exit strategy that involves _stairs_.” Joan says, pulling the box down off the shelf and tucking it under her arm.

“Well,” Holmes says.

And then the fire alarms go off, and she yelps as she’s suddenly doused in water.

“I _hate_ it when they let you do the planning!”

But she’s out the door and hurrying down the stairs alongside a crowd of disgruntled residents with no one the wiser, and she has to admit (to herself, never to Holmes, who is smug enough as it is) that the whole plan worked out quite neatly.

They always seem to, with Sherlock Holmes.

\---

Except, of course, when they don’t.

Joan wakes up slowly, her head heavy and shoulders aching. She blinks and feels her eyelashes brush up against fabric – a blindfold. Her shoulders are wrenched uncomfortably backward, wrists pressed together with a zip tie. Her earpiece is gone, and so are her shoes. She can feel concrete against her bare feet. It’s cold in this room.

She’s not sure exactly how long she’s been in this state. Casting her memory back, she thinks her attacker must have been waiting in the alley behind the coffee shop. As she’d come out, phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder and two lattes in hand, the individual likely stepped up out of the alley and clubbed her from behind. She can smell coffee, probably dried stains on her shirt from falling over the cups.

There’s a scraping noise, like a heavy door being pulled back. Joan feels a brief rush of warm air before the door scrapes shut, and its back to the sterile air conditioning. Large hands take her shoulders and drag them upward until she’s sitting straight up, with her back to a wall and her legs extended in front of her. Joan points and flexes her feet, stretching. They’ve left her ankles free. Their oversight, she thinks.

Someone reaches around her head and tugs the blindfold free. Joan keeps her eyes closed for a moment, then opens them slowly. The light in the room is bright, and trained on her face. She squints as the shape of a woman standing in front of her comes slowly into focus. There’s a large man lurking in the corner of the room, holding a piece of cloth. The owner of the large hands, she assumes.

“Joan Watson,” the woman says, “What a pleasure to finally meet you.”

 Joan clears her throat, swallowing twice so her first words don’t come out as a croak. “Wish I could say the same.”

The woman’s face is becoming clearer now that Joan’s eyes are adjusting to the light. She’s blond, with large blue eyes and an upturned nose that can’t be described as anything other than cute.

The coldness in her pale eyes and harsh slant of her mouth, however, are anything but.

The woman squats so her eyes are level with Joan’s.

“Please don’t be obtuse. You’ll have guessed who I am, of course.” The arrogance in her tone almost makes Joan laugh. Some humor must slip through, because the woman says sharply, “What? What is it?”

“You remind me a bit of someone I work with,” Joan says. “Except he’s not in the habit of hitting unsuspecting women over the head and dragging them off to his secret lair.”

The woman looks surprised, then delighted. “Oh, did you just compare me to _him_? He’ll absolutely hate it. I’ll have to remember to bring it up in my next letter.”

She can’t know who Joan is talking about, surely. Crazy, Joan decides. And starts to case the place for large windows or anything she can use as a weapon.

The woman, sharp eyed, notices this. She coughs, and says gruffly, “Don’t even think about trying to escape.”

This startles an actual laugh from Joan. “The Princess Bride? Don’t tell me you’ve brought me here to keep me from ruining the royal wedding.”

Blond smiles. “I can see why he likes you. You’re charming.”

Joan doesn’t have many exes, and none of them, she thinks, are anywhere close to this level of psycho. Unless she’s been conned by a fucking _pro_.

There’s a shrill ringing from the blond woman’s pocket. She pulls out her phone and checks the caller ID. Curses roundly.

“Excuse me a minute, won’t you Joan?”

She answers the phone with a sharp, “Explain,” as she walks out of the room. Joan looks over at the man.

“Hey, you there.”

He doesn’t respond. Joan continues, “I think you dislocated my shoulder, and I’m starting to slide down this wall. Can’t you adjust these ties?”

The man keeps staring. Joan sighs. “Fine.”

In one fluid motion she pulls her knees into her chest and pushes with her bound hands against the wall, driving herself up to her feet. The man startles, and rushes forward with one hand outstretched.

“Sit back dow—umph!”

He stumbles backward, clutching his nose. Bleeding, from where Joan headbutted him. She presses her advantage with a knee to the groin followed quickly by a kick to the top of his left kneecap. He goes down with a muffled shout, choking and spitting blood. Joan turns and kneels so her bound hands can tangle in his hair, she gives his head a firm whack against the concrete floor and he goes still.

She glances behind her and checks his breathing. He’ll be out for an hour at most – but she’ll be long gone by that point. Joan takes a few minutes to frisk the man, awkwardly, with her hands behind her back, but it’s worth it. She finds a gun under his jacket and a small knife in his boot.

She uses the knife to saw away at the ties on her hands. She’s clumsy with it, catches her forearms in a few places. The blood running down her arms makes her hands slick, makes the knife harder to hold on to. But the ties loosen eventually, and she wriggles her hands free, sighing with relief as the tension eases out of her shoulders.

The heavy door squeaks as Joan pulls it open. There is no one on the other side, so she moves out quickly. There’s a clear dead end on her left, so she turns right and breaks into a light jog.

Two stairways and three unconscious guards later, she’s out on the sidewalk in an unfamiliar neighborhood. Still New York, however, she thinks. She pulls the jacket she nicked from one of the guards closer around her shoulders, hiding the blood on her hands, and walks toward the sound of traffic.

Her bare feet attract some odd glances, and one middle aged woman stops to ask if she’s alright. Joan smiles and says, “Oh, fine, thank you. Just a dare.”

She walks six blocks before she hails a cab and gives him her address. “I don’t have any money on me,” she explains, “but I’ll pay you when I get some cash from the house.”

He looks a bit skeptical, but Joan’s doing her best impression of a battered and weary woman so he eventually gives in.

They pull up to her townhouse, and there’s a familiar dark haired man waiting on the stoop. He’s off the stairs and moving quickly toward the cab as they pull up – jerks open the door before the vehicle can come fully to a stop.

“Watson!”

“Sherlock,” Joan says, “do you have twenty three dollars handy?”

Sherlock pays the cab driver and turns to look at Joan, standing quietly on the sidewalk. His sharp eyes take in everything, from her bloodstained fingertips to her bare feet, the oversized guard’s jacket and the tangled mess of her hair.

“I don’t suppose you also have my spare key?” Joan asks. She hasn’t given him a spare, but wouldn’t be surprised if he’d made a copy for himself all the same.

“Yes.”

He opens the door and holds it for her, locks it securely behind them. Joan walks into the kitchen and strips off the stolen jacket so she can examine her arms. The knife cuts are jagged and still sluggishly oozing blood. She hears Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath from just behind her.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to a chair as he moves in the direction of her bathroom. Joan sits down. She’s feeling slightly lightheaded – it has to have been at least eight hours since she last ate or drank.

Sherlock comes back with her first aid kit and a roll of gauze. He kneels in front of her chair and takes her right arm gently.

“Tell me,” he says, as he pours disinfectant onto a small cloth and begins to clean the scrapes. The peroxide hisses and bubbles as it hits her skin.

Joan tells him about the attack from behind, the crazy woman, and her somewhat improbable escape. Sherlock listens in silence through the whole tale, bandaging her arms and moving on to her feet. His hands are as steady as any professional surgeon.

He ties off the last bandage neatly and shifts his weight back slightly to examine his handiwork.

She’s come away from missions bloodier than this, more traumatized and less coherent. He’s never offered to put her back together before. And, in addition to his uncharacteristic attentiveness, there’s the matter of how he knew to wait for her here _._

“Sherlock,” she says, leaning forward. “How did you know I’d been taken?”

Sherlock doesn’t quite meet her gaze. He shifts as if to stand up, and she reaches out and grabs his shoulder to keep him put, wincing as the movement tugs on her barely-healed cuts. His gaze locks on her bandaged fingers and he scowls. Angry, but not at her.

“The box you retrieved yesterday,” he says finally. He gently removes her hand from his arm and stands up to pace in front of the kitchen sink. “For some months now we’ve been aware of a criminal organization operating under the direction of one woman. Moriarty.”

It clicks for Joan. “The woman who abducted me.”

Sherlock nods gravely. “The box was supposed to contain evidence of a jury rigging we’re certain she organized in Washington just a few weeks ago. Instead, it held only a puzzle. It took me sixteen hours to solve.” He stops, looks at her.

Joan lets the silence stretch, then asks, “And what did you find?”

“Your name,” Sherlock says with a kind of forced calm, hands curling into fists. “She was mocking me all along.”

Joan’s mind is racing. “She expected me to know who she was,” she says slowly. “Sherlock, was yesterday the first time I’ve worked a Moriarty-related operation?”

Sherlock is half turned away from her, staring angrily out her back window. “…No.”

“And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning to me?” Joan surges to her feet, suddenly furious, ignoring the pain in her stinging feet, “Two years of working together and you still don’t trust me? What do I have to do to prove myself to you?”

Sherlock spins on his heel and grabs her by the shoulders, gives her a rough shake. “Enough. It has nothing to do with trust -- I was trying to keep you from becoming too involved. Moriarty is a psychopath, and she’s obsessed with me.”

His grip on her shoulders is too tight. Joan scowls at him. “Obviously I _am_ involved. And if there’s a crazy person who has it out for you, why do you think I wouldn’t want to be?”

What is the point, she thinks irritably, of being a highly trained government operative with secret authorization to use deadly force if one can’t _apply_ said force to get rid of psycho stalkers?

Sherlock takes an abrupt step toward her, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet his eyes when he says, “I didn’t want you to get hurt on my account.”

Joan sighs. “The easiest way for you to hurt me is by cutting me out. I just want you to _talk_ to me.”

Well. If she’s being completely honest, she’d like to do more than _talk._ But she’s long resigned herself to the oddly intimate platonic relationship they’ve settled into over the past twenty six months. (Not that she’s counting).

And she’d rather have him like this than not at all.

She’s starting to get a bit of a crick in her neck from looking upward, and tilts her head back down until her forehead rests against his chest. His hands are still warm on her shoulders. It’s been a long day – she could fall asleep like this. He seems to recognize the signs and slings an arm around her waist, guiding her toward the bedroom. She flops down onto the bed with relief. Sherlock hesitates a moment before backing quietly out of the room. She almost misses his murmured, “As you wish, Watson.”

Or maybe she’s already dreaming.

\--

It wasn’t an immediately good match, when the Director paired Special Agent Joan Watson with her new handler.

“What kind of name is Sherlock?” she’d said, slouching in the chair facing Director Gregson’s desk. “And how long did you say it would be until Marcus is back?”

“Marcus,” the Director says, fixing her with his pale eyed stare, “has been promoted. He’ll be working directly for the Secretary of State. Which means, barring any stroke of bad luck, he’ll be back _never._ ”

Joan huffs out a sigh. “I’d just gotten used to him.”

Gregson shrugs. “Well. Get used to the new guy then.”

Joan looks back at the resume in her hand. There’s a picture pinned over the front page. He’s attractive, she notes, but not in a particularly memorable way. Perfect for undercover.

The door opens and closes behind her. Joan looks up, just as Director Gregson says, “Ah, Holmes. You’re early.”

Joan turns and meets the eyes of her new handler. He’s looking directly at her as he says, “You’ll excuse the intrusion, Director. I was curious to see what unfortunate soul I’d been assigned to rehabilitate this time.”

Joan’s jaw nearly drops in disbelief – by force of training, she keeps her mouth shut and her fists to herself.

Sherlock Holmes moves closer, sharp eyes still taking her measure. Joan forces herself not to react. She counts to ten in her head, first in Mandarin, then in French.

“Well, at least she has better self-control than the last,” he says. “And certainly better hygiene.”

“Yes,” Joan says crisply, giving his messy hair and untucked shirt a pointed once-over, “Heaven forbid I should have to take personal grooming tips from _you._ ”

She does not get the reaction she intends with this comment – instead, Sherlock’s eyes light up. “Oh, and she’s not an idiot! I’m feeling better about this assignment already.”

“That makes one of us,” Joan says grumpily.

Sherlock just smiles wider. “So, when do we begin?”

Gregson sighs long-sufferingly, which Joan takes as confirmation that he _knew_ he was setting her up with the most infuriating handler to ever set foot in the CIA’s New York office _._ She gives Gregson a look to ensure he knows that she’s onto him, and will not forget this any time soon. Gregson shifts uncomfortably under the force of her stare, and shoves another file under her nose by way of distraction.

“Something light, just to warm you two up. We need you to deliver a sensitive package to the Chinese embassy.”

Joan lifts a hand to take the file, but before she gets any further Sherlock’s grabbed it and is rifling through.

“Hm. And that’s it?”

Gregson nods. “Got a problem with that?”

Sherlock shrugs and drops the file onto Joan’s lap. “It just seems like a shame to waste the opportunity. Tomorrow is the annual lunar New Year’s celebration – you can’t tell me all you want from the Chinese diplomats is to hand over suggestions for amendments to the trade agreement.”

Gregson opens his mouth and closes twice. Finally he says, “And how in the hell did you know about the trade agreement?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “But it’s obvious, surely.”

Joan frowns. She’s finished scanning the assignment – it’s a bare bones description, really, more of an entry and exit instruction manual than anything else. Nothing that even hints at trade agreements.

“Seriously, Sherlock,” she says. “How did you know?”

Sherlock heaves a put-upon sigh and flings himself into the chair next to hers. “Consider the facts. Presented to you in this paperwork: a time and a place, the celebration of the Lunar New Year at the Chinese embassy. The contact, some low level unrecognizable Chinese official. The time just after midnight. Now, consider the facts _not_ presented. The US and China have discussed many topics during the Prime Minister’s visit, one of the most contentious being trade relations between the two countries. The specifics of the negotiations…”

Joan feels something shifting inside her as she listens to Sherlock expound on the nuances of Chinese tradition and make impossible leaps of logic that, in retrospect, make so much sense it sounds like he’s been scripted.

When Sherlock finishes, he looks at her, one eyebrow quirking up. “Will that suffice?”

“That was amazing,” Joan says, unable in that moment to be anything other than perfectly honest. “Absolutely incredible.”

Sherlock looks surprised, then flattered. “Only a bit of active reasoning.”

Joan looks at him a moment longer, then turns to Gregson, who appears entirely unsurprised. She takes this as affirmation.

“Cleverer than the rest of us, as always Mr. Holmes,” Gregson says. “Now get out of here the both of you. I expect a report on my desk in the morning.”

The mission goes off without a hitch, and Joan finds herself trailing Sherlock back to his place once they’re through.

“I don’t drink alcohol,” Sherlock announces, as they exit the subway and begin their walk into Brooklyn, past convenience shops and 24-hour pharmacies, “But it won’t bother me if you’d like to purchase some for yourself.”

Joan considers, then shakes her head. “No, not necessary. This isn’t really cause for celebration – we were just doing our jobs.”

Sherlock smiles at her. “We’ll get on fine,” he says, “I love an overachiever.”

Joan isn’t quite sure what he means, but his smile is distracting and she can’t look away long enough to give the comment proper consideration. It is probably a good thing he’s a handler not a partner, she thinks wryly, or she’d certainly be in trouble.

\---

When Joan wakes up, she’s alone in the house, still sprawled on the bed wearing a bloodstained t-shirt and jeans, her arms and feet still neatly bandaged. She sits up slowly, taking note of the soreness in her shoulders (from the restraints) and tenderness in her feet. She winces as she gets up, putting pressure on them.

Sherlock’s left her a note on the kitchen table.

_Back shortly. Coffee in the thermos. Don’t touch the bandages._

Joan chuckles to herself. She has a nickname among her fellow agents – they call her “The Surgeon”, for always patching herself up impatiently and refusing to wait for proper medical attention. She’s become quite adept at this, actually, and no actual doctor she’s ever met lays a straighter butterfly bandage or neater stiches. Besides, doing her own medical work has the added advantage of requiring fewer trips to highly monitored and brightly lit hospitals, where nurses demand identification and are trained to remember suspicious behavior.

The creak of the door alerts her to the fact Sherlock has returned. She knows it’s him, from the thumps of someone kicking off his shoes without bothering to bend down and untie them (“Whatever is the point of undoing all the lacing only to have to do them back up again each time I want to step outside?”)

He’s striding into the kitchen a moment later, carrying a cardboard box under one arm and a small grocery bag in the other. “Watson! Excellent, you’ve awoken.”

He puts the box on the table and takes the grocery bag over to the counter. Pulls out eggs, a loaf of bread, cheese and a few apples. “Your fridge was despairingly empty,” he says, when he notices her watching. “A few cartons of yogurt, and some dubious looking green beans.”

“Well, this isn’t my primary residence,” Joan reminds him. “If I left anything here, it would go bad while I was out on ops.”

Sherlock shrugs and opens her cabinet to grab a skillet. “Good that you don’t have much attachment to the place, as you’d best sell it immediately. If Moriarty has been having you watched, it has likely been compromised.”

Joan looks around and frowns. “You think she had me followed here?”

Sherlock pauses in his slicing of the bread and looks up at her, eyes serious. “I suspect she’s been having you followed for quite some time now.”

Again, Joan feels a spark of temper rising up. “Were you ever going to tell me? Or was I supposed to guess? Through _observation and deductive reasoning_.”

Sherlock flinches a bit and looks away as she spits out those last few words, mockingly. His own words. “I would never withhold information if I believed you in any danger,” he says quietly. “Until yesterday, I believed her machinations confined to me and my brother.”

_Brother?_ Joan has never heard Sherlock mention family. The curiosity it sparks is almost enough to make her set aside her anger. Almost.

“You can’t imagine how it felt when I realized she had taken you,” Sherlock continues, still not meeting her gaze. “You are right to be angry with me. My foolish miscalculation nearly cost you your life.”

He looks up, now, and she’s taken aback by the intensity of the self-loathing she sees there. “Believe me when I say I will _never_ be so careless with your safety again.”

Joan does believe him. And the last of her anger dissipates, as she realizes she can’t punish him any more than he’s already punishing himself.

“I think I need more background,” she says. “I need to know what we’re up against.”

The ‘I forgive you’ goes unsaid, but not unheard. Sherlock relaxes slightly, and goes back to the breakfast preparations.

“It is rather a long story,” he says.

Joan leans back in her chair and watches him split the eggs onto two plates, adding sliced cheese and bread to both before bringing them to the table. Once he’s set out forks for both of them, she says, “Start at the beginning.”

Sherlock takes a bite of eggs and chews slowly. Swallows, and then begins –

“I first met Irene at the CIA training facility. She caught my eye immediately, amongst the mix of bright eyed and overeager recruits. I was there as a punishment – in my youth, I was something of a miscreant. Laws of probability dictate that even the most adept hacker will be discovered once, and when I was I was given an ultimatum: serve my time conventionally, in a prison cell, or serve the CIA.”

Joan is surprised. “The CIA doesn’t recruit criminals.”

Sherlock looks slightly embarrassed, “Well, my brother is someone of influence within the government. I doubt the same choice would have been offered to me were I simply exceptionally gifted, and not also a Holmes.”

Joan rolls her eyes. This is the Sherlock she knows – simultaneously pragmatic and so unabashedly egotistical it is hard to take offense.

“I did not expect to stay long with the government – I had two years of required labor before the terms of my employment would end, after which I planned to go on my way. I found that I enjoyed the work, however, and before long was recruited into the cyberterrorism division. The head of which, at the time, was a woman named Jamie Moriarty.”

Joan’s jaw drops. “She was the head of the CIA’s _anti-_ terrorism group?”

Sherlock smiles ruefully. “Speaks rather poorly of our security screenings, I’ll admit. But you may take comfort in the fact that Moriarty is a nearly unparalleled genius and there are unlikely to be others running around impersonating patriots.”

Joan is still perturbed, but Sherlock presses on.

“It wasn’t until she vanished, along with all the relevant information we’d spent several months gathering on a network of terrorist cells based in the former Soviet Union, that we realized our mistake.”

“I don’t see how that could be your fault,” Joan interjects. “There was an entire team of managing directors and psychologists who should have seen right through her.”

Sherlock gives her a look. “I was…closer to Moriarty than any other within our division. And she had access, through my carelessness, to information outside the scope of her work that enabled her information theft.”

Closer. Joan’s stomach clenches. Sherlock’s never discussed being “close” with anyone, and other than the odd paid-by-the-hour companion she’s never seen him even express interest in another woman.

And that, she thinks ruefully, is her issue – she can’t help but think of Moriarty as “the other woman”. _You never had any claim on him in the first place. Not that way._

Sherlock’s still talking, and Joan forces herself back into the conversation.

“We made every attempt to find her, all of which failed miserably. I was certain she’d passed out of my life, leaving me, if nothing else, more cautious as a result. And then the letters began.”

Sherlock indicates the cardboard box he’d brought in with him, and Joan pulls it over. She glances in, and sees that it is nearly filled to the brim with stacks of neatly printed letters. Each one addressed, “Sherlock” and signed simply, “M”.

“Moriarty is the head of one of the most extensive criminal networks in the world,” Sherlock says. “She sends letters immediately before some major crime is successfully executed by her syndicate – thefts of priceless art, political coups, cybersecurity breaches. Sometimes I can solve the riddles in time to watch them unfold. Sometimes I don’t put the pieces together until after the fact.”

“Do you send her letters in return?” Joan asks. “Are you in communication?”

“No,” Sherlock says shortly. “The communication has always been one way.”

Joan leans forward, pushing the box of letters out of her way. “I think it’s time we changed that.”

\---

“Absolutely not.”

Gregson glares at them from the other side of his large wooden desk. Joan and Sherlock are standing in front of him like errant children, and Joan is almost tempted to clasp her hands behind her back and stand at attention.

“This is one of the best opportunities we will ever have to apprehend Moriarty,” Sherlock replies firmly, “We must not let the opportunity slip away.”

Gregson ignores him and turns to Joan. “Agent Watson, did he talk you into this?”

“Actually, sir, it was my idea.”

Joan enjoys the look of shocked disbelief that crosses Gregson’s face. He throws his hands up. “Great, now I’ve got two of them. I’m not risking one of my best agents on a half-cocked scheme with no exit strategy and minimal chance of success.”

“Actually, Director,” says an unfamiliar voice from the doorway, “you will do exactly that.”

Joan turns to look as a tall, grey haired man enters the office. He’s middle aged, in decent shape and wearing what Joan can immediately tell is an incredibly expensive suit. He notices her appraisal and smiles.

“Sherlock – will you please take Director Gregson down to the cafeteria for a coffee? I’d like to speak with Agent Watson.”

Sherlock doesn’t move.

“ _Alone,_ ” the man stresses, as if all that Sherlock needed was a bit of clarification.

Gregson looks between Sherlock and the new man for a minute before he heaves himself to his feet and grumbles, “Agents and handlers scheming behind my back, White House minions evicting me from my own office – forget coffee, you can find me at the bar when you’re finished.”

He stalks out. Sherlock doesn’t follow.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” he asks quietly.

The man – Mycroft – raises a brow. “My dear brother,” he says, “I should think it obvious.”

Oh, Joan thinks, they are _definitely_ cut from the same cloth.

“We don’t need your help,” Sherlock says shortly, “We have everything – ”

“Quite under control, yes yes.” Mycroft waves a hand, “I could tell by the expression on the Director’s face that he couldn’t wait to devote resources to your latest hare-brained scheme.”

“I assure you, it is an extremely well-considered scheme.” Sherlock says icily.

Mycroft shrugs. “Be that as it may, you’ll need my support to expedite the authorizations you require within the timeframe you require them.”

Sherlock says nothing. Joan doesn’t know who, exactly, Mycroft is when he’s not playing older sibling, but …(“ _my brother is someone of influence within the government”_ )

“And what do you want in return?” Joan asks, drawing both men’s eyes to her.

“Simple, my dear,” says Mycroft. “Ten minutes alone with you will do.”

Sherlock scowls. Joan levels a flat gaze at Mycroft. “Fine.”

Sherlock’s scowl deepens. “Watson,” he begins, but Joan lifts a hand to cut him off.

“No, Sherlock. Your brother is right – we’ll need more than just Gregson’s clearance to pull this off.”

Mycroft looks pleased. “You needn’t look so dour, Sherlock. I am certain Ms. Watson is quite capable of handling herself without you.”

“ _Quite,”_ Joan echoes emphatically. Sherlock shoots her a slightly aggrieved look but, after a moment, turns and stalks out, closing the door rather harder than necessary behind him.

Joan turns to Mycroft. “Your ten minutes starts now.”

The indulgent smile slides from Mycroft’s face and he leans forward until their eyes lock.

“Then I’ll get right to the point. In a relatively brief period of time, you have become someone of importance to my brother.”

“We’re friends,” Joan says carefully.

Mycroft shakes his head. “Sherlock doesn’t have _friends_. He has those he will tolerate, and those he will not. You are an exception, in a way that I have seen only once before.”

Joan’s stomach clenches. “I am _not_ Moriarty.”

Mycroft’s expression doesn’t change, but she notices a quick flash of approval in his eyes. “I must ask you to describe the nature of your relationship with my brother.”

Joan is still shaken from the comparison. Mycroft’s desire for a one on one interview makes more sense to her now – to ensure she hasn’t emotionally manipulated Sherlock the same way a nigh uncatchable crime lord had once before.

“He’s been my handler for two years,” Joan says firmly. “I would never take advantage of our friendship, or do anything to jeopardize his safety.”

Mycroft peers suspiciously at her, then suddenly blinks in surprise. “You’re in love with him.”

It’s nothing Joan doesn’t already know about herself, but it is still discomfiting to hear it said so brazenly out loud—and by a total stranger no less.

“Yes.”

Mycroft leans back and a satisfied look comes over his face. “Very well then. It appears our interests are aligned in this matter – eliminating Moriarty is vital to ensure the well-being of my brother.”

“So you’ll see if you can pull some strings, expedite our approvals?” Joan asks.

Mycroft laughs. “My dear, _I_ am all the approval you need.”

Joan raises an eyebrow. “I think Sherlock’s plan calls for an executive order, with the President’s…”

Joan trails off as Mycroft continues to chuckle.

“The president will sign any document I put in front of him. You’ll have your papers by tomorrow morning at the latest.” He checks his watch and then returns his hands to his pockets. “Now, I’m afraid I must be going. Wouldn’t want to keep the Korean ministers waiting. Either of them.”

“No,” Joan murmurs after his retreating back, “we certainly would not.”

And she’d thought _Sherlock_ was insufferable. Joan makes a mental note never to piss off Mycroft Holmes, and then sets off in search of her handler and her boss.

\---

Joan and Sherlock spend the night in her burned safe house. Joan stands on the front stoop to watch the sun set, holding a mug of tea and wrapped in a knee-length knit sweater. She hears the front door creak open behind her, and Sherlock steps out to stand at her elbow. He doesn’t say anything, and she’s content to let the silence sit.

“I believe they are aware of our intent to remain here,” Sherlock says finally. “I would feel more comfortable if you returned inside until the designated time.”

Joan tilts her head so she can look at him. He’s staring straight out into the sunset, the very picture of calm – except for his jaw, which from this distance she can see is clenched tightly.

“As you wish,” Joan says, turning back toward the house.

Sherlock inhales sharply. “Watson,” he begins, and suddenly Joan is afraid. She doesn’t want to hear the end of this sentence – not now, of all times. She sets the mug of tea down on the porch railing and reaches out to grab his face, pulling it down to hers and catching the rest of his words with her lips.

He goes frighteningly still for a moment, and then relaxes into the kiss. One hand moves to settle at her waist and the other tangles in her hair, cupping the back of her skull. Joan traces his cheekbones with her thumbs as she pulls away, slow.

“Sorry,” she says quietly. She and Sherlock have few boundaries, but she’s pretty sure she’s just taken the one ironclad, unspoken rule and tossed it out the window.

His laugh is short, slightly breathless. “You need never apologize to me, Watson.”

Joan sighs and drops her hands, picking up the mug of rapidly cooling tea. As usual she’s dissatisfied with his reaction – he _must_ know how intensely she feels about him. Sherlock Holmes is a master of subtlety and Joan feels she’s been about as subtle as a ton of bricks. But he doesn’t pull her closer and he doesn’t push her away, and all in all she’s not sure where they stand. It is a conversation that’s a long time coming, but she can’t bring herself to start it tonight. Not when it could very well be the last conversation they ever have.

She goes inside and closes the door behind her.

Morning comes slowly – she doesn’t sleep well, can’t quiet her restless thoughts. So it is earlier than they’d agreed when she steps outside in her running sneakers, ipod shoved into the waistband of her leggings. She doesn’t bother to bring her phone.

She does two miles before they come for her. She notices the man first, a Yankees ball cap pulled low over his eyes, the sheen of latex gloves on his hands a dead giveaway. His partner is female, dressed also in jogging gear and carrying a small backpack. They make eye contact and Joan forces herself to remain calm, smiling and nodding acknowledgement, the camaraderie of pre-dawn runners everywhere.

The woman smiles back brightly, eyes shifting from Joan’s face to somewhere just over her shoulder. Joan has a moment of doubt, then, considers whipping around and planting an elbow in the face of the man behind her, grabbing his wrist and tossing him into the woman to send them both tumbling while she makes an escape.

But the moment passes, and she lets herself be knocked over the head by Baseball Cap instead. The last thing she sees is the woman jogger stopping, bending over to put her hands on her knees.

“Damn,” the woman huffs, “the bitch can run. Next time, _you_ get to track on foot. I’ll wait at the drop zone.”

And the world goes black.

Joan wakes up handcuffed to a bed. They’ve considerately laid her down on her side, so there’s no undue strain on her shoulders and neck. Joan worries about this arrangement, which feels more deliberate than her prior abduction. She’d almost have preferred the zipties.

“Finally, you’re awake!” a voice says brightly from the foot of the bed. Joan picks up her head to look, although of course the voice is quite familiar.

Moriarty is sitting on the end of the bed by Joan’s feet, casually cleaning her fingernails with a scalpel. Joan pulls her feet up and maneuvers until she’s in a semi-upright position, with her back to the bedframe and her hands in front of her.

Moriarty continues, “I’d apologize for kidnapping you again so shortly after the last time but, of course, this time you wanted me to.”

Joan doesn’t say anything. Sherlock told her Moriarty was a genius and unparalleled interpreter of body language. She tries to keep hers loose and unassuming.

 “I have to admit, Joan Watson, you are something of a dark horse. I have had to move up my timetable rather significantly to account for your influence on the Holmes boys. But,” she shrugs, “I suppose it is for the best. The game was getting tiresome anyway.”

Joan speaks, has to cough to clear the rasp from her voice. “Our lives aren’t a game.”

“Dehydrated, dear?” Moriarty gets up and walks to the other side of the room where there’s a small bathroom. She brings back a glass of water and holds it to Joan’s lips. As Joan drinks, she says, “Charming that you think so, but of course this is a game. There are no actions you can take that I haven’t already considered and strategized for. Every choice you make shuts down your options and limits what you can do next.”

She crouches down beside the bed until their faces are level. “For instance, I let slip a hint about my relationship with Sherlock when you were last here. You could either let it go, or investigate. Obvious what a well-trained spy would choose. Upon learning the truth, you could run or fight. Again, your character gives you only one option. And that brings us here.”

Joan fights not to roll her eyes.

Moriarty notices. “You think I’m taking credit for things that just _happened_ to occur. You’re wrong.” She stands. “Things don’t just _happen_. They are arranged. And your presence here is not a coincidence.”

“Obviously,” Joan says, “Because I was abducted. Again.”

Moriarty smiles. “No. You are here because you are in love with Sherlock Holmes. And you want to free him from the one thing that could tear him away from you.”

Joan says nothing. Moriarty sighs. “I’m still determining exactly what I want to do with you. There are so many ways to make a statement. I’ll let you know when I decide. Until then,” she shrugs and stands.

When she closes the door, the lights go out and Joan is left sitting alone in the darkness.

\---

They don’t feed her on a schedule. Sometimes Joan’s stomach is cramping with hunger before the door opens and someone walks in with a tray (liquids only, as they don’t uncuff her for meals). Sometimes she’s still full from the meal before. They’ve fed her thirty six times, but Joan can’t translate that to any reasonable approximation of time.

They cut her hair after the third meal, with oversized scissors. It’s a hack job on purpose, Joan is certain, but as there are no mirrors in this cell she fails to see the point.

After the eighth meal, Moriarty visits again. She brings a laptop computer and sets it up so Joan can see the screen.

“I thought you might like to know,” Moriarty says, “that things are progressing exactly according to plan.”

There’s a video message on the computer screen. Moriarty checks to make sure Joan is paying attention, then clicks play. Sherlock’s face surges out of the tiny envelope icon to fill the screen. He looks solemn. He tells Moriarty she can have whatever amnesty she wants – anything within the power of the US government to provide – if she’ll return Watson unharmed and promise to leave the country immediately.

The message is exactly forty-five seconds long. Moriarty snaps the laptop shut when it finishes.

“A rather sub-par performance,” Moriarty comments. “I don’t think he really understands the situation.”

She stands.

“Let’s give him a bit more time to work it out, shall we?”

Joan is alone again for what feels like days. They feed her twelve more times. There is nothing in this room that she can use to occupy her mind – she’s afraid she’ll die of sheer boredom, if nothing else. And she understands now, viscerally, the meaning of “solitary confinement”.

Moriarty comes back.

“Just checking in on you Joanie,” she says, breezing in and collapsing in the chair beside Joan’s bed. “No complaints about the hospitality, I trust?”

Joan swallows a few times before she answers – she can’t remember how long it’s been since she spoke. “The tomato soup is a bit bland.”

Moriarty blinks. “I’ll make sure we get you a bit more variety in the diet.”

“And a TV?” Joan asks. “I don’t want to fall too behind on the Bachelor.”

Moriarty throws back her head and laughs. The sound echoes in Joan’s small room, even after she’s gone.

After that, Moriarty’s visits become more regular. She asks Joan about her favorite foods, and demonstrates a surprising understanding of Chinese cuisine and culture. They talk about travel, and Joan learns Moriarty has a penchant for old, proud cities—Vienna, Moscow, Warsaw. Moriarty is somewhat surprised to learn that Joan is an avid Mets fan, and takes to providing her with regular updates on baseball scores.

Not, unfortunately, in the form of newspaper clippings with dates and contextual information such as how many games have been played so far in the season – Moriarty is careful to make sure there’s nothing Joan can use to track the passage of time.

And then Moriarty brings in the laptop again, one evening, smirking like the cat who ate the canary.

The Sherlock on the screen this time doesn’t look solemn at all – he looks frantic. This message is only twelve seconds long.

_Give her back, Moriarty. I’ll get you whatever the_ fuck _you want._

“He’s beginning to understand,” Moriarty says, smiling as she puts the laptop away.

“Understand what?” Joan asks hoarsely.

Moriarty shrugs. “That he’s gambled and lost.”

She stands, and adds, “But as much fun as it has been getting to know you, I do believe it is time to move into the next phase of my plan. You won’t enjoy it nearly as much, I’m afraid.”

The sound of the door clicking shut behind her echoes ominously in Joan’s brain. For the first time since she’s awoken, chained to this bed, she feels afraid. That was _not_ a side of Sherlock she’s ever seen before, and she has the sinking feeling that it is not an act anymore.

\---

They move Joan very soon after. They blindfold and strip her, taking her utilitarian clothes but leaving the handcuffs. She’s been moved to an actual cell – iron bars and concrete floor and a small bucket in the corner. Joan shivers with the cold. She’s lost a lot of body mass over the time she’s been kept here, and the room must be fifty five degrees at most.

A few hours later, they’ve turned the place into a ninety degree furnace and she’s sweating like mad. They flip her again, and the sweat cools on her skin and her teeth are chattering in minutes. At some point, they decide the extreme temperature swings aren’t disturbing enough, and the lights brighten until she is squinting against the glare. Occasionally, they flicker the lights--to keep her eyes from adjusting.

There are no meals brought to her here. The door doesn’t open once. Joan strains her ears for the sound of Moriarty’s footsteps in the hall, and hears nothing.

She starts to beg. Let me out, please let me out don’t leave me here let me out—

She screams herself hoarse and then her voice is gone and she’s left with nothing but the violent heat and the biting cold and the flashing lights that don’t let her sleep. She hasn’t slept since they brought her here.

She’s a fucking _trained operative_ she was prepared for this (no not even remotely – she’s been trained to withstand interrogation, pain, threats…not silence and abandonment, not for what feels like an eternity).

She passes out eventually – from hunger, heat, exhaustion or, more likely, a combination of the three. She’s jerked back to awareness by a shock of cold water to her face – she blinks and looks around, but there’s no one. She looks more closely and notices a small nozzle in the corner of the room. It is still dripping.

Joan wails her frustration, voice breaking.

Time passes. Joan wonders if she’s dying. Wonders why Moriarty doesn’t just kill her. Knows, of course, that a body with no bullet holes or stab wounds will be evidence to Sherlock of the worst possible death – long and torturous. If Moriarty wants to destroy him, Joan’s agonizing death in service of his failed scheme will be an excellent start.

She hears footsteps in the hall and sighs inwardly. Hallucinations, now – she must be close to the end. But the hands tugging on her wrists and the click of metal cuffs falling to the floor are too real to be figments of even her most vivid dreaming.

“Quietly,” a voice hisses in her ear, “She’s gone out but I don’t know when she’ll be back!”

What?

Joan stumbles forward, most of her weight supported by the young man whispering in her ear. They make their way down a long hall, and he drags her up a flight of stairs until they reach an outward facing door. He shoulders it open and Joan feels the kiss of fresh air on her face like a miracle.

The man doesn’t pause to let her savor the moment.

“Come on, in you go.” He’s stuffing her into the passenger seat of a van, and hopping in behind the wheel. He reverses sharply and Joan’s head lolls. She think she blacks out, because the next thing she knows she’s being hauled out of the van and carried up someone’s front stoop. The man sets her down on the porch. Joan blinks groggily at him, but all she can see behind a ridiculous ski mask is a pair of dark blue eyes.

“He saved my sister,” the man says suddenly. “Holmes. She was going to be sentenced to life in prison for a crime she didn’t commit – he found the true culprit, got her off. A life for a life.”

And then he’s gone. Joan hears the screech of tires and the sound of a door opening next to her head.

Someone that sounds like Director Gregson is calling out to her from somewhere just above her face, “Watson! Joan! Holmes--one of you, I don’t care which! Call an ambulance!”

The world fades. Joan embraces the darkness.

\---

She comes to in a hospital room. Everything hurts. Even her eyelids, when she peels them back to open her eyes.

“Watson?” says an achingly familiar voice from somewhere to her left. Joan turns her head with effort to see Sherlock sitting on the edge of a hospital chair, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on her face.

She attempts a smile. “Hey. Not one of our most successful missions, huh.”

Sherlock’s hands clench into fists, and he says nothing, eyes still burning bright and focused. The only sound in the room is the periodic beeping of her heartrate monitor, and it is slowly driving her crazy. Joan makes an attempt to sit up, and Sherlock is out of his chair instantly, supporting her.

“You shouldn’t be attempting to move yet,” he says, voice slightly disapproving. Joan welcomes this – Sherlock’s lectures are something to which she is well accustomed. Sherlock’s silence…not so much.

“How long have I been here?” Joan asks.

“Two days,” Sherlock replies. He sits on the edge of the bed, one hand still on the small of her back.

“Wow,” Joan says. “I’ve never been unconscious that long.”

“You’ve never been held captive, starved and tortured so long either.”

Joan blinks in surprise at the venom in his voice. He’s looking away now, avoiding her gaze. She reaches out to cover his hand with her own.

“Sherlock,” she says soothingly, “I’m back now. I’m fine.”

“You are _not_ fine.”

Joan’s spine stiffens. “Cut it out Sherlock. You can’t blame yourself for this. We both understood the risks we were taking.”

Sherlock shakes his head, still not meeting her eyes. “I miscalculated. I underestimated Moriarty— _again,_ after I swore to myself I would not fall victim to her games a second time. And you are once more bearing the repercussions of my stupidity.”

Sherlock pauses and takes a breath. Joan can feel his hand trembling under hers.

“Words cannot express how sorry I am that I’ve involved you in this,” he continues. “I’ve done quite enough damage to your life.”

“No,” Joan says sharply, cutting him off. “Sherlock don’t you dare.”

He soldiers on, ignoring her outburst. “I’ve put in a transfer request. Without my continuing presence in your life, you will be safe from Moriarty.”

Joan laughs, and it comes out hoarse, her chest burning with the effort. “Fuck that. I can protect myself.”

Sherlock looks at her, finally, and stands. “No. I almost lost you once, and it practically destroyed me.”

“You can’t guarantee that I’ll be safe if you leave me,” Joan says. There’s desperation coloring the edges of her voice, more emotion than she’s used to displaying. But this is _Sherlock_ , speaking so casually of walking right out of her life, and it’s more terrifying than anything Moriarty could have threatened her with.

Sherlock exhales sharply. “The greatest threat to your safety right now is me.” He moves away from the bed and toward the door in quick, determined steps. “How many times must we make the same mistakes before we accept that fact?”

And then he’s stepping out the door and ignoring the way she’s practically shouting after him. But the yelling out is exhausting, and she can’t keep it up longer than a few minutes. There’s a nurse knocking at the window now, peering in to check on her with concern.

“Honey, you all right? Anyone I can fetch for you?”

_How many times must we make the same mistakes?_ Joan thinks to herself. _At least once more._

“Get me Mycroft Holmes,” she says.

\---

The hospital is only marginally quieter at night. Nurses still make their rounds, waking the patients every two to three hours for tests, check-ups, medications. There’s really no worse place for trying to have a restful recovery, Joan thinks, than a hospital bed.

It has been nearly twenty four hours since her talk with Mycroft. She’s been restless for the past three. She looks at the clock again, and presses the call button for the nurse.

It takes four minutes for the gentle knock to come at her door. It creaks open and a voice says, cheerfully, “Did someone call for the nurse?”

Joan’s skin crawls, and she flinches involuntarily. She feels suddenly hot and cold. Moriarty laughs.

“Darling,” she says as she crosses over to Joan’s bedside, “I missed you when you were gone. I was so vexed when Tomas moved you without permission. Naughty boy.”

Joan doesn’t ask, doesn’t want to know. Moriarty tells her anyway.

“I had to cut his hands off. That’s what they used to do to thieves, did you know that? It always struck me as an effective deterrent from subsequent offences.”

“You’re disgusting,” Joan says. Moriarty frowns and leans over.

“Don’t be rude, Joanie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Moriarty shrugs. “As you wish. You only have a few minutes left to live, so far be it from me to deny your last requests.”

Joan inhales sharply. Moriarty reaches out and smooths her hair away from her face. Joan flinches back, hand curling around the smooth plastic object she’s hidden under the covers.

“Anything else, darling?”

Joan coughs, and says, “Tell Sherlock…”

Moriarty leans in closer, anticipation bright in her eyes. “Yes?”

“Screw it,” Joan says, “I’ll tell him myself.”

She surges up from the bed and stabs the needle into Moriarty’s neck, thumb pressing hard on the syringe. Moriarty rears back, hand going to her neck in shock.

“What the hell—” she starts to say, and then her eyes roll back and she collapses to the ground, twitching. Joan leans over the side of the bed to watch her, dispassionately, until the twitching stops and she lies still. Then Joan presses the button for the nurse again – twice, in quick succession.

As agreed, Mycroft enters the room alone. He looks at Moriarty, lying still on the floor next to Joan’s bed, and raises his eyebrows.

“Is she dead?” he asks.

“Yes,” Joan says calmly.

Mycroft looks at her sharply. “That was not our agreement. You were to incapacitate her, and deliver her to me for further interrogation.”

Joan leans back. “She is incapacitated, and you are free to interrogate her all you like. You didn’t specify she had to be _alive_ for it.”

Mycroft snorts. “Rather a loose cannon, aren’t you Agent Watson.”

Joan is unmoved. “She was a danger to Sherlock, and a danger to me. The only way to ensure she wouldn’t continue to pose a threat to either of us was to remove her from the equation.”

“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” Mycroft says. “And, for my brother’s sake, I will honor my end of our agreement.”

 “Good,” Joan says.

“But,” Mycroft continues, “Don’t think I won’t be watching you, Agent. Your career is mine now. Don’t forget it.”

Joan closes her eyes and ignores him until he leaves. The body leaves with him.

\---

She’s out of the hospital six days later. She was admitted with severe dehydration and nutrition deficiency, but nothing that can’t be cured with feeding tubes and plenty of forced inactivity. Gregson comes to sign her out on the last day, and informs her sternly that she’s not to engage in any training activity for the next six weeks and that she’s on short-term disability leave until he decides she’s fit to return.

Joan asks how long that will take.

“Get a Netflix account and a library card,” Gregson advises, “and prepare yourself for some serious time doing nothing more stressful than sitting on your ass.”

He gives her a ride to her new city safe house, and they swing by the grocery store on the way. He helps her unload and hands her the keys to the house, promising to send an agent every few days to check in on her.

She doesn’t ask about Sherlock, and he doesn’t volunteer any information.

She makes dinner that night, a simple pasta with vegetables, and has a glass of wine before bed. The house is eerily silent after the bustle of the hospital. It reminds her of the time before, in a windowless room with nameless visitors and sporadic feedings – she stops herself, breathing deeply, and pours another glass of wine.

She sleeps fitfully, and wakes too soon. She rolls over and checks the clock – it is barely half past six. There’s a rustle from somewhere else in the house, and Joan tenses. She waits, and the noise repeats.

Joan gets up and tiptoes down the hallway, cursing silently for forgetting to spread out her weapons – she’s left all the knives in the kitchen. Which is where, from the sound of it, her intruder is located.

Joan reaches the doorway to the kitchen and looks in, muscles tensed and ready to pounce if necessary. But she recognizes the familiar brown hair and straight back, the shape of his shoulders and set of his feet. She enters the kitchen.

“Sherlock.”

He turns and looks at her, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Watson,” he says. His eyes are serious, and he keeps his hands carefully tucked into his pockets. She hesitates, smile fading.

“Mycroft told me about your…arrangement.” Sherlock says carefully. Joan blinks in alarm, and Sherlock raises his hands placatingly. “Not to worry, I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

Joan shakes her head. “I’m not worried about you turning me in,” she says.

Sherlock lowers his hands. “You’re worried about what I think of your actions? I am the last person to question the morality of your choices, Watson. You did what you thought was best to protect yourself.”

“No,” Joan says, stepping forward. “I did what I thought was necessary to keep from losing you.”

Sherlock’s expression changes, softening. He reaches out – finally, she thinks – to cup her face. “There is nothing you could do to lose me.”

Joan keeps very still. “You were leaving.”

“Only until I had taken care of the problem myself.”

The admission shocks Joan, the implications quickening her breath. “You…”

Sherlock laughs and moves his hands from her face to her shoulders, pulling her in close. “It is amazing how someone as intelligent as you are, Watson, can occasionally be so obtuse. You really believed, after everything, that I could simply walk away?”

Joan tucks her head under his chin and leans into his chest, mind still reeling. She doesn’t care that he’s gently insulting her, now – in Sherlock speak it’s practically a form of endearment.

But she needs to be certain. Can’t interpret and extrapolate – not about this.

“Sherlock,” she says, “you know that I love you, right?”

“Obviously,” he replies, eyes shining.

“And it’s clear by now that I’ll take drastic action to keep you with me. But,” she says slowly, “if you _want_ to leave, you have to tell me. And I will let you go.”

Sherlock smiles. “What have I said about being obtuse?”

“ _Don’t_ play with me Sherlock,” Joan warns, “not about this.”

Sherlock’s hands tighten around her waist. “As you wish, Watson. I, too, can be direct when the situation calls for it.”

He pulls back and turns until he’s looking at her head on, and her breath catches.

“I love you, Joan Watson, and will love you as long as the stars burn in the sky and the earth turns on its axis. It will take more than a little violence to convince me to leave your side.”

But Joan’s not listening anymore – she’s crying, and the tears sliding down her face feel more real than the horrors of the past weeks. Sherlock feels real, here, his hands on her waist and his lips pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Hush,” he says, “we’ve won. It’s over.”

“No,” Joan says, smiling through the tears, “It’s beginning.”

 


End file.
